This is the last chapter of drabbles that I will be posting. These drabbles are a bit special to me because they were the first things I attempted when I started writing fanfic, and here I am hundreds of thousands of words later :). So thanks to all of you who have read and reviewed this story. I really enjoyed writing each and everyone of them and exploring all the different characters. But my writing trends of late have lead me to believe that I won't be writing drabbles anymore, and so I've decided to close this story.
This one is mostly Sybil/Branson stuff, some it AU, but I believe there is an Edith one somewhere in there. I also tacked on two drabbles that I've already published as a different story, but since I had nothing to add to it I've deleted it and combined it with this one.
Branson and Thomas - Alcohol
Thomas was restless. And so were his feet. Mrs Patmore, usually the last to go up, had long blown out the last of the lamps as Thomas paced for the third time around the circumference of the house. His mind was taking its time adjusting to the familiarity of his old life, free from the war-zone accoutrements that had pervaded his new one.
He eventually grew tired of the circular rut his feet were forming, and set out for the distance. There was a light on out aways, out in the yard - a single lamp still burning in the garage - and Thomas drew towards it like a moth lost in a darkened house. The doors ajar, when Thomas came around to look inside he saw the chauffeur was there reading one of his God-awful papers, and having himself a bit of nightcap.
Branson looked up rather eagerly, Thomas thought, but resumed a neutral expression once his eyes ascertained it was only the old first footman.
"Thomas? Do you have a message for me?" he asked.
"No. Just out for walk."
"In the middle of the night?"
"What's it to you?"
Branson shrugged. "Nothing," he said, and then raised his glass towards him. "Do you drink?"
Thomas turned up his nose. "Not that."
"Suit yourself." Branson turned back to his paper as Thomas wandered inside.
"So you just sit out here all day long by yourself?"
"I suppose. Except when one of the family needs the car, of course."
Thomas frowned. The idea unnerved him, dawdling in solitude hour by hour with only the intoxicating smell of petrol to console him. As much as Thomas hated people, he knew he'd go mad if he wasn't constantly surrounded by them. "Doesn't it get lonely?" he asked, prodded by a sudden spur of sympathy.
Branson smiled. "Not really," he answered with a peculiar bent in his tone. "But I don't mind company all the same."
Thomas took the invitation and settled himself down onto a workbench. "Well then. Maybe I will have that drink after all."
Edith and Mrs. Patmore - A Different Life
"Can I get anything for you?"
"A different life."
"I think that's everything." Anna turned to where her mistress was staring out of the window. "Are you looking forward to London, milady?"
"You mean to being chaperoned by my Aunt Rosamund to party after party filled with nothing but old spinsters?" She chuckled. "No, not particularly."
"It might not be so bad. You've always enjoyed yourself there before."
"Perhaps when I was a young girl and not every man I knew was dead." Anna lowered her head, and Edith sighed. "I'm sorry, Anna. I shouldn't be snappish, not after all the trouble you've gone through to get me packed up so quickly."
"It's no trouble at all, milady. And don't be sorry. You never need to be sorry for that." She closed the trunk. "I'll be going down then, unless you need anything else?"
"No, I should be all right. Thank you, Anna."
Anna left, and Edith lay down on the bed. They were shuttling her away, she had decided. Packing her off to London, hoping the distraction of honking cars and a few boring card parties would allay her mind of the humiliation.
And that's what she was – after the devastation and heartbreak – there was no denying the scorch of being completely and utterly humiliated. Of course no one was laughing at her, at least not this time. No, it was ten times worse than mere laughter, so infinitely less bearable to be the object of pity than the butt of a joke.
Sybil had gone back to Dublin with tears in her eyes and a belly full of expectant joy. Mary and Matthew, all money troubles resolved, resettled into their disgusting pattern of happiness. The whole household tiptoed around the middle daughter, heaping ashes upon her downcast head with their piteous looks and quiet murmurings.
Her stomach grumbled, a natural side effect of her paltry consumption these past few days. She considered ringing for Anna, but didn't want to bother her again, not now that she was supposed to be wholly devoted to Mary. Carson or the new footman would do, she thought, but almost on a whim, overcome with a feeling of restlessness, she bucked up, and sought her recourse personally by venturing down to the kitchens.
It had been ages since she had gone down into the bowels of the house. At the bottom step she paused and peeked around the corner. She heard the upbeat chatter, saw the shadows bustling about, and instinctually knew that she did not belong there. She turned around to creep back up the steps when a voice stopped her.
"My Lady? Is there something you need?" Mrs. Patmore's stocky form asked.
Edith slowly turned back around and smiled.
"Not really, I just…. I was a bit hungry…"
"And you'd like something to eat?"
"Yes. If it's not too much trouble, that is."
"No trouble at all, milady. And can I say I'm quite happy to see you've got your appetite up again."
The cook led her to the hall and pulled out a chair. Edith sat down in her usual timid fashion, and in a few short seconds, much faster than Edith could have anticipated, an array was spread before her: pies and cheeses and some cold meats. She began nibbling, asking around a small mouthful:
"Whatever happened to the wedding food? I don't think I saw one scrap of it, after…."
Mrs. Patmore cleared her throat. "We ate it, my lady. And what was left was donated."
"I see." Edith swallowed, and took another bite. "I'm sorry you had to go through all that trouble for nothing."
"It was no trouble at all, my lady."
Edith smiled tightly.
It never is any trouble, is it? Not for any of you.
"Yes, but to think of all that work, and all for nothing," Edith persisted.
"Not quite for nothing, my lady. The poor in the village were very appreciative."
"Well I'm glad some good has come of it." The conversation lulled, and that familiar awkwardness began to creep in. "If it was anything like the food at Mary's wedding I'm sure it was wonderful," Edith said with a forced brightness.
Mrs. Patmore looked at her sadly. "Thank you, milady. I do try."
Edith finished the rest of her snack in silence, feeling somewhat abashed by the queer looks from the passing servants, and the obviously busy cook who was quite clearly itching to get away and attend to her duties, yet who still sat stoically beside her.
Edith rose – "Thank you, Mrs. Patmore. I feel quite refreshed" – and quickly headed back to the stairs.
But she didn't go back upstairs, not immediately. Edith loitered at that bottom step, and watched the kitchen staff about their business. Mostly she examined that short, stout figure who roared about with a shock of hair that was a frighteningly familiar shade of strawberry, taking notes on the scars that graced her arms, the scruffiness of her voice and demeanor – a countenance that was strangely appealing. Mrs. Patmore was yelling up a storm, every command quickly and thoroughly obeyed, at one moment waving her arms wildly about, the next slicing up vegetables with a precision that astonished her. Her hands were calloused and charred, free of any jewelry, unhindered by the band of gold that would have led to a different life than head cook in an Earl's household.
Edith smiled.
She wanted so desperately to have a different life – a life like Mary's a life like Sybil's – but perhaps that was not her fate. Perhaps she'd instead she'd grow bold and scruffy, and lead a much more different life than she had ever dreamed.
She raced back upstairs, for the first time excited about being packed off to London.
Branson and Sybbie – like father like daughter
She was a striking replica of her mother in looks, but in everything else an undeniable Branson: both elbows perched on the table, one hand immersed in a tangle of curls as it supported her lolling head, the other picking at the untouched pile of peas on her dinner plate.
"Have you recently forgotten the use of a fork?" he asked after swallowing.
Sybbie delicately held one small, green sphere between her fingers, and flicked it into his face.
"It'll save you the trouble of washing one extra," she said, smiling away his chagrin.
He was smiling too by the time he was finished wiping his face, and before remembering to school his features back into the veneer of Responsible Parent.
"I got another letter today," he said, and very near severely.
Sybbie blew out a long breath of air. "And what did she have to to tell you?"
"Your headmistress," he said sternly, "tells me you've missed the last two days of school." He paused for effect. "Is it true?"
She sat suddenly upright. "I would never lie!" she said forcefully, and then fell silent.
Branson sighed. "I admire your spirit, Sybbie, but eventually you'll have to learn to respect authority."
"You mean like you?"
He tried a different tack. "You'll need to finish school if you want to get anywhere, and that means following along with their rules."
"I suppose that might be true, if I didn't have such rich relatives."
"You can't go crawling to your Aunt Mary whenever you want something."
"Aunt Mary?" Sybbie laughed. "It's Uncle Matthew that got me that tube of lipstick for my birthday even after you said no." Her bright, red lips puckered for emphasis, before opening up wide, shrieking as a pile of peas found its way to the top of her head.
Sybil and Branson – Holiday (AU)
"What about China?"
Her voice rang with enthusiasm with the suggestion, however preposterous, and Branson couldn't bring himself to let that one go. His humoring only went so far.
"We're not going to China," he said with finality and a frown-inducing scoff.
"Why not?" Sybil side-stepped the children littering the floor as she headed for the stove. "Imagine it: The Great Wall, The Forbidden City. The food will no doubt be fantastic and that's to say nothing of the tea." She gave the pot a stir. "And Mrs. Lee speaks so fondly of it!"
"Anyone would about their homeland," he replied almost wistfully. He could sympathize with their neighbors, an ocean away from everything they were born and raised to know, to understand. This land of opportunity afforded the Bransons much: freedom from the rigidity of both their birthrights, an escape from the wagging tongues that followed them everywhere. Now in place of the comments spoken behind veiled mouths were open, puzzled smiles and an innocent, "Earl of Grantham? What's an Earl of Grantham?"
Sybil would always laugh - "Oh, just a type of tea! We English love our tea!" – and the Bransons and their unique marriage would be accepted without further fuss or ado.
And so he couldn't regret coming here. The upbeat tempo of San Francisco thrummed through their veins - the salt-smell of the bay, the flood of warring accents; chocolate, trolleys, and pizza. It was where they belonged, a place their children could grow without ever feeling ashamed.
The children were rustled up and placed in their proper pecking order at the table. Sybil set the stew down as the family dug in. Branson savored a bite - it was very nearly a small taste of the past; but these were no prairie lands and it was impossible to get the right cuts of lamb.
"Alright then, not China." Sybil smiled her secret smile that never failed to excite and scare him. "What do you think about…. Europe?"
"Europe?" he repeated. Underground art galleries; streets made up of water. "The Continent?" he asked again without much warmth.
"If you like. But I was thinking of someplace a bit greener, and much more…. wet."
It took a moment for her words to sink in. "Ireland?" he asked. "You want to use your grandmother's money to visit Ireland?"
"Well, we'd stop at Downton on they way, naturally. But I must admit I've missed the constant rainstorms and the way I could never understand a word out of anyone."
Branson laughed. It seemed a good decade with him had taught her a bit of sarcasm. Outside the ocean mists of the Pacific were beginning their nightly stroll and horns blared loud, scattering the gulls as they circled the bay - a small taste of the past, but not quite close enough to truly feel like home.
Home.
"I think Ireland would be grand."
Sybil and Branson – Snow (AU)
Little feet pitter; raindrops patter. Wind shakes the window panes till they rattle like cages, and Sybil thinks they may as well be considered a family held hostage for all these loud complaints of being trapped.
"Just a few minutes outside, Mama, and we promise not to get wet!"
The good nurse does not relent.
"Da?"
He is the indulgent one, yes, but he knows better than to contradict. Three pairs of eyes stare miserably out the window to watch the earth grow soggy without them. At length the shoulders hovering over the sill begin to shiver, and a small voice grumbles about a draft.
A familiar look winds up on his face, for he is as wont to instruct as he is to indulge.
"It could be worse," Tom begins as the children groan in anticipation. "Back home we had ice falling from the sky, not water. And none of these electric heaters. Nothing but coal, and you lot wouldn't have lasted five minutes with all that smoke."
No words, only a row of rolling eyes in triplicate makes up the feeble protest before any further effusions are ably warded off.
"Perhaps it's more comfortable, but I do miss the snow!" Sybil interposes. The steam in her mug coils upward in a faint smile.
"That's because you never had to shovel any."
"It wasn't only that, although I'm sure it improved upon the memories." She smiles fondly, distant recollections glazing her eyes. The children have abandoned their watch at the window. They sit at their Mama's feet, eager and rapt. "I'd wake up one morning to see every inch of the earth covered in white," she says in low, storybook tones. "Nanny would practically drown us in wool, and then Mary, Edith, and I would go outside – we had a tradition," she continues as their eyes light up. "Snowmen! We each built our very own every year, and then your Grandmamma and Grandpapa would judge whose was best."
"A contest?" an excited face squeaks.
Sybil smiles. "Yes, I suppose it was! A snowman-building contest. Mary always won, of course."
"Of course," Tom rejoins, the children nodding sagely. Bereft of the physical presence of their extended family, the children have had to rely on oral depictions, and their Aunt Mary has long since passed into legend.
She takes a sip. "I miss those days," she says longingly, a suggestion of pain. "I do so wish we could have snow for Christmas, even for a day. I'd even shovel it!" she ends loud enough for all to hear.
He goes to sleep thinking she is being strangely nostalgic, and the next afternoon after he herds the children indoors, they rush upon her with market bags and toothy grins.
They show off their purchases. Sybil looks confused.
"What are all these for?"
"It's to build our snowmen, Mama!"
"Ah." Sybil pops a marshmallow into her mouth. "I see. So we're to build proper snowmen out of these?"
"As proper as can be," Tom says, "only in miniature."
"And also edible?"
"Consider it a bonus. And you won't have to worry about freezing your hands off."
Sybil laughs. She hasn't worn mittens in years.
After diner they spend the evening concocting their creations. Sybil doesn't have the heart to choose one over the other and they are all declared winners, before impaling the poor creatures with a straightened wire and roasting them alive over the hearth. It's a cruel ending, but a necessary sacrifice to slake their holiday appetites.
The browned and melted remains are squished between two graham crackers, a thick slab of the city's finest chocolate wedged within. Sybil stuffs it whole into her mouth in a gooey, delicious mess.
She laughs, licking her lips and fingers. She never could have eaten like this at Downton. And though she'll still sigh over the slate grey sky that proffers nothing but sheets of water, she would never trade away that sky, or this life, or the lips that meet hers in a chocolaty kiss.
Sybil - And She Dances
Sybil dances in the schoolroom, to music pinched out from the harpsichord by her governess in the corner. Her governess is suitably strict, but not nearly as much as the dance master that directs her steps with calculated precision.
Dancing should not be so cold, she thinks. It should be like running through the meadows or chasing tadpoles by the pond – nonsense and freedom and moving like the wind in the reeds.
.
.
Sybil dances in the ballroom. The music is grand and austere, a battalion of instruments beat out their marching orders as directed by the conductor. Couples weave together like cords in a loom, mechanical cogs with not a single step out of place.
Dancing should not be so coordinated, she thinks. They all know the steps and it is all rather boring. They should bump and collide, laugh as they stumble on top of each other, as though playing a game where no one knows the rules.
.
.
Sybil dances at her wedding. A few cousins plunk or bang on patched up fiddles and drums. She skips and runs rather than glides and curtseys. And the steps are new and confusing; but she laughs because she's sure no one else knows what they are either.
This is just what dancing ought to be like, she thinks.
.
.
.
There is a ghost in the kitchen. She hums a light and lofty melody, bright like sunshine on a rare, fair-weather day. She swings around like freedom and the wind, twirls into chairs and bumps into the cupboards, with a baby girl in her arms that giggles and chirps and delights in her first dancing lessons.
But the room is ordered and clean, quiet and cold, because there is no one dancing here, and there never will be.
Branson – Dreams
He does not seek out her face in the sky, or listen for her voice in the wind. But if he sees her visage in the morning haze, cloudy and undefined. Or if he hears her voice amidst the early bird's song, muted and unformed, as if talking through water, he finds he cannot deny her.
Her hair is long, her face young and fresh. In this place she is lightness and air, Sybil Crawley, always, before she had taken that sacred vow that changed her name and claimed her life. And she might smile and laugh, such actions unknowingly cruel, or simply stare sweetly enough to kill him. Occasionally she may speak, and he might speak back.
"You're not real," he eventually says.
She smiles, eyes crinkled, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"You're not real," he repeats.
"How can you say that?" Her face falls. She looks wounded, and clutches his hand. "I'm right here, darling, why would you say that?"
She is not real. They are not real. There is only one reality left for them and so he tells her:
"Because you're dead."
She wanes.
"You're dead and you're never coming back," he proceeds. "You've gone away and sometimes…" He takes back his hand as her figure grows dim. "Sometimes all I want to do is follow."
"That doesn't sound like you." Her voice is barely a whisper.
He shakes his head sadly. "I'm never going to sound like me again," he replies, and she is gone.
When sunlight cascades through the drawn window he will rise again. But he does not seek her face in the sky, for he no longer looks at it. Nor listen for her voice in the wind, for he can no longer feel the breath of the earth, nor anything at all.
As always, thanks for reading and for your kind reviews :)
